


True Love and High Adventure

by senorbunnicula



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (Sorry guys I forgot that not everyone in the world has seen the movie), Alternate Universe - Princess Bride Fusion, M/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-16 20:29:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9288416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/senorbunnicula/pseuds/senorbunnicula
Summary: “Yuuri,” Victor interrupted urgently. He cupped Yuuri’s face with his hands. “Yuuri, kiss me.”Yuuri’s smile widened, and his hands, warm and strong and calloused, reached up to caress the soft pale skin of Victor’s jaw. “As you wish,” he breathed.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by uncoolly's [ fabulous art](http://uncoolly.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> This has been sitting in my drafts for like a _week_ because I can't think of a good title, so if you can think of one, hit me up.

The year Victor Nikiforov was born, the most beautiful man in the world was a twenty-year-old from Jakarta named Bejo. His skin and voice and eyes were smooth as silk, and he was a fantastic polo player.

 Neither Victor nor his parents knew or cared about Bejo. Victor was a newborn baby whose only concerns were food and sleep, and his parents were just pleased that their little boy was healthy and happy, and not scrawny and hairless like their neighbors’ new baby girl. They made a mental note to never encourage Victor to ask for her hand in marriage; they didn’t want _bald_ grandchildren, after all.

 Bejo fell off a horse and died when Victor was six years old. Victor did not mourn his death, as he was completely unaware of its occurrence. Victor was far too concerned about his first tooth falling out to give any thought to the loss of the most beautiful man in the world.

 When Victor was twelve, the most beautiful man in the world was a twenty-nine-year-old from Vladivostok named Dmitri, whose eyes were the color of the sky on a clear summer's day.

 Unfortunately, Dmitri got into a fight over a woman when he was thirty-three and ended up with a vicious knife scar down the side of his face, marring his beautiful skin and eyes. However, he still won the fight--and the undying love of the woman--so he was content with his lot, even at the expense of his beauty.

 Victor did not know about this, either, as he was too busy wondering if his nose really _was_ too long, like the neighbor girl had told him.

  _She’s one to talk,_ he thought grumpily as he cupped a protective hand around his nose (which his mother had assured him was perfectly fine). _If her nose were any flatter, she wouldn’t even have one._

 

When Victor was sixteen, his parents hired a boy from the other side of the village to come help his father with his work on the farm. “You’re my darling boy, but you’re terribly flighty, Vitya,” said his mother, after Victor had forgotten to turn off the water pump (again), allowing the troughs to overflow (again). “That Katsuki boy seems to have a level head on his shoulders; he’ll do.”

 His father just nodded and set off to do as his wife bade.

 The new farm boy was about Victor’s age, but his hair was short and dark and his eyes were brown and his face and body were a little rounder than Victor’s. He was very quiet, and kept mostly to himself, although he never seemed to mind when Victor’s mother got tired of Victor’s dancing through the kitchen and shooed him out of the house so she could have a little time to herself, and Victor inevitably went to the barn to bother the other boy.

  
When Victor turned seventeen, he noticed that people turned to look at him when he went to the market. “Mother,” he asked when he came home one day, “why do people keep staring at me?”

 (The most beautiful man in the world that year was a twenty-four-year-old from Canada with a laugh like a melody, whose life goal was to win the Iditarod and had no concern whatsoever with any other titles bestowed upon him.

 He did eventually win, but not until he was twenty-eight, and at that point, he’d been bumped far enough down the List that nobody outside of his family and dogsled racing fans really cared.)

 “It’s probably your hair,” said his father, not looking up from his newspaper. “It’s long! It’s silver! You’re seventeen! What are you doing with long silver hair?”

 “It’s _platinum, honestly,”_ said his mother, rolling her eyes. Victor’s parents argued constantly about the proper color of his hair. She turned back to her son. “Vitya, darling, people look at you because you are nice to look at.”

 Little did Victor or his parents know that Victor was already in the running to be one of the top ten most beautiful men in the world as soon as he turned twenty-one and became eligible for the List. 

Some people grumbled that everyone was banking _very hard_ on Victor’s potential, and he’d better live up to it after all this hype.

 “Am I really?” Victor asked, running his fingers absently through his gray silver platinum hair.

“You should work with that,” said his father, still not looking up from his newspaper. “Maybe you can get a rich woman to make you her trophy husband and then you can care for your parents in our old age.”

“You’ll need to improve your manners a little first, though,” said his mother.

 Victor went to the bathroom and studied himself in the mirror. His hair, which was always the first thing people noticed about him, _was_ very nice, long and shiny, and it flowed like a silky curtain down his back as he moved. His eyes were decent, he supposed, a good size and an interesting color and very expressive, though his eyelashes could be longer. Hopefully, the rich woman he married wouldn’t mind his short eyelashes. He was also tall for his age and thin (but not scrawny, like the neighbor girl with the flat nose), which meant he would look rather well in the fancy clothes rich people wore. Or, at least, based on the clothes the people richer than _him_ wore as they rode through the village.

 Victor ran out to the barn to talk to the farm boy, who Victor talked to at least once every day. The farm boy hardly ever responded, but he didn’t seem to mind Victor doing all the talking, which Victor appreciated. Everybody else always made him shut up after a while.

 (“What are you reading?” Victor asked him one day.

 The farm boy said nothing, just held up the book so Victor could see the cover.

 “Is it interesting?” Victor asked.

 The farm boy bobbed in head in that _well, yes, I suppose so_ kind of way.

 “I made up a new dance last week,” said Victor. “Would you like me to tell you about it?”

 The farm boy shrugged, his eyes flicking up to meet Victor’s as he closed his book.

 Victor then spent the next twenty-five minutes telling the farm boy about the dance, before finally just performing it for him.)

  


(This was a typical interaction with the farm boy.)

  


“Farm Boy,” Victor called, flouncing into the barn, ensuring his long silky ~~platinum~~ ~~gray~~ silver hair streamed becomingly behind him--practice makes perfect, after all. “Do you think I’m lovely to look at?” 

The farm boy’s big dark eyes widened as he dropped his broom, and he flushed to the tips of his ears.

 “You can be honest,” said Victor. “I’ve decided to become a beautiful trophy husband; I need to know what I have to work on and what I’ve already got going for me.” 

The farm boy stared down at his feet, then his eyes met Victor’s for a moment and he nodded. 

“Yes, I’m lovely to look at, or yes, I have a lot to work on?” 

The corners of the farm boy’s mouth twitched. He had a very nice mouth, Victor noticed absently.

 “Both,” the farm boy said quietly, before returning to his work. 

Victor beamed. “Excellent!” he exclaimed. “Come on, you can help me improve myself.” 

The farm boy stopped and stared at him. “I have work I need to do here for your father,” he said, which, honestly, was the longest sentence he’d ever spoken to Victor. 

Victor waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll talk to my parents about it,” he said. “They’re the ones who told me to be a trophy husband in the first place.” 

The farm boy looked at him evenly for a long moment (Victor would really have to learn his name; he couldn’t just call him _farm boy_ forever, could he?). “As you wish,” he said at last.

 “Great!” Victor turned to go back to the house. He paused and glanced over his shoulder, hoping that he looked cute as he glanced at the farm boy through his hair. “What was your name again?”

 

* * *

 

The farm boy’s name was Yuuri, and apparently, Victor was supposed to have known that, since the farm boy had been working for them for a year now, and, indeed, Victor had spoken to him nearly every day. 

“Sorry,” said Victor, smiling apologetically, making a mental note to never ever put that crestfallen look on Yuuri’s face again. “I’ve always had a terrible memory.”

 This was true, and it never really improved. It got to the point that one day a few years later, a woman draped in pearls dropped by to see Victor (she’d heard the murmurs about him and was in the market for a sixth husband) and she’d been mortally offended that Victor had blithely forgotten her name between the moment her footman gave it and the moment she held out her hand for Victor to help her down from her carriage.

 After she’d sped off in a huff, Victor ran to the barn to tell Yuuri about it. 

“You should work on that; trophy husbands should probably remember the names of all the other rich people,” said Yuuri as he sat down to eat his midday meal.

 “Really?” Victor asked as he gracefully sat down on the bench next to him (Victor did everything _gracefully_ these days; his teacher--who had once been a maid in a baronet’s house and knew how these things worked--had told him that rich people did everything _gracefully_ ). “I thought I could just stand around looking pretty and nobody would care whether I knew their name or not, as long as I smiled at them.”

 Victor was, at this moment, six days away from his twenty-first birthday, and the world waited with bated breath. He had, indeed, grown into the potential of his younger self, with eyes as blue and clear as Dmitri’s and skin and voice as smooth as Bejo’s and a laugh like the man from Canada’s, and some speculated he would join the List at an unprecedented _fifth place._

 Yuuri shrugged. “Isn’t that what you do already?” 

Victor gasped and draped himself dramatically across Yuuri’s shoulders. “Yuuri, you are so _heartless,_ ” he cried. “You wound me.” He peeked up through his lashes (which were still not as long as he hoped they’d be, unfortunately. Yuuri, on the other hand, had _beautiful_ eyelashes) and gave Yuuri his best pleading smile. “Would _you_ make me your trophy husband, Yuuri?”

 Yuuri’s face flushed redder than Victor had ever seen it. “I can’t afford a trophy husband,” he muttered, gently shrugging Victor off of him before reaching for the box containing his lunch.

 “But if you _could,”_ Victor persuaded, patting Yuuri’s thick dark hair. “ _You’d_ make me your trophy husband and take care of my parents in their dotage, wouldn’t you? Tell me you would.”

 Yuuri stared down at his lunch. “As you wish,” he said evenly, pulling the lid from the box in his hands.

 “Oh!” Victor gasped, looking down at the food Yuuri had uncovered. “That smells wonderful; what is it?”

 “Katsudon,” said Yuuri. “My favorite; my mother made it for me, it’s great.”

 Victor tried the Pleading Smile again. “Could I try some?” 

Yuuri, who’d just finished a bite, shrugged amicably and tilted the bowl towards Victor. “As you wish,” he murmured.

 Victor looked down at the bowl, then looked at Yuuri, who had a bit of rice on the corner of his lip and was smiling softly, and his sweet dark eyes (framed by those wonderful eyelashes) were warm and if Victor had been aware of the List at all, he’d think everyone was an idiot for not even _considering_ Yuuri, because he was definitely at the top of Victor’s List, and Victor--who was dizzyingly beautiful and dazzlingly charming and reasonably intelligent but didn’t always _think_ before he did things--leaned over and kissed Yuuri, right on his surprised mouth. 

Yuuri started, but didn’t pull away. He didn’t reciprocate, either, and Victor wondered absently if he needed to work on his kissing technique--a trophy husband should probably be a decent kisser. 

Suddenly, Yuuri’s hands were in Victor’s hair and Victor stopped giving any damns whatsoever about his potential future as a trophy husband because Yuuri was kissing him _back_ and there was even some _tongue_ involved and it was _amazing_ and Victor cupped Yuuri’s neck in his hands and started pressing little pecks all over Yuuri's sweet lovely face. 

“You’re right,” Victor murmured, staring into Yuuri’s eyes.

 

“About what?” Yuuri whispered back, and Victor was pleased to note Yuuri was a bit out of breath. Maybe his kissing technique was okay, after all.

 

“Katsudon,” Victor replied. “It’s wonderful.”

 

Yuuri stared blankly at him for a moment before he started giggling, and Victor thought he’d never heard a more beautiful sound than that in his entire life.

 

* * *

 

Victor kissed Yuuri lightly before laying his head on Yuuri’s bare chest, humming happily at the sound of Yuuri’s heart beating.

 “Tell me you love me,” Victor demanded, pressing his nose into the base of Yuuri’s throat as he snuggled closer, wrapping an arm around Yuuri’s soft stomach. 

“You know I do,” Yuuri replied, running a hand through Victor’s hair. “I’ve been telling you for years, now.”

 “You barely said a word to me all that time!” Victor protested. “How was I supposed to _know?”_

 “I spoke to you,” Yuuri replied, stroking his fingers along the strands of Victor’s hair spilled across his chest. “It’s not my fault you weren’t listening.”

 “ _What_?” Victor propped himself above Yuuri and stared down at him, his long hair falling around their faces like a curtain. “What do you mean?”

 Yuuri smiled gently up at him. “You asked if I would be your partner in your dancing and language and etiquette lessons and I said, _as you wish._ Then you asked if I would _make you my trophy husband_ and share my katsudon with you and I said--”

 “ _Yuuri,”_ Victor interrupted urgently. He cupped Yuuri’s face with his hands. “Yuuri, kiss me.”

 Yuuri’s smile widened, and his hands, warm and strong and calloused, reached up to caress the soft pale skin of Victor’s jaw. “As you wish,” he breathed.

 

* * *

 

Victor Nikiforov had debuted on the List at number _four,_ shockingly, but now that his every move and expression were suffused with adoration and love, he shot up to first _overnight._  

Victor did not care one whit. Yuuri, his darling little katsudon, thought he was beautiful, and that was all that mattered to him anymore.

Others, however, cared a _lot._ Victor’s parents were overwhelmed with offers of marriage, from persons both rich and poor, from all corners of the world, although whenever they brought up a potential match, Victor would toss his long hair over his shoulder and declare that he would marry no one but Yuuri and his parents had better get used to the idea.

 “What was the point of all those lessons if you’re just going to marry the farm boy?” his father grumbled over his ever-present newspaper.

 “It’s not as though he can appreciate your fluency in French or your knowledge of Italian opera,” said his mother.

 “Yuuri likes opera, actually,” said Victor, blushing sweetly. “Who do you think I’ve been singing them to for practice?”

 “I can’t believe this,” said his father, who thought Yuuri was a good worker but was nothing particularly special.

 “I suppose you can force me to marry someone else,” Victor said airily, sliding his fingers up and down his braided hair--Yuuri had done it for him earlier today; his Yuuri had such _clever_ hands. “But I’m taking Yuuri with me anyway, and I will be shockingly public about it.”

 “You would shame your dear old parents?” asked his mother without looking up from her mending. She thought Yuuri was a very nice boy but a little plain, especially compared to Victor.

 “You’re not old, Mother,” said Victor gallantly. “And I wouldn’t shame you with Yuuri if you’d just stop this nonsense and say I can marry him.”

 His mother sighed heavily before sharing a Married Look with his father--Victor couldn’t _wait_ to share that sort of look with Yuuri.

 Victor could tell the exact moment his mother gave up on her dream of being the pampered mother of a pampered trophy husband. “Very well,” she said. “I suppose you can marry your farm boy, if that’s what you really want.”

 Victor’s answering smile guaranteed that no one would be able to touch his spot on the List for quite some time.

 

* * *

 

“I’m going away for a while,” Yuuri said, his beautiful strong hands warm around Victor’s chilly fingers. “To sea. I've signed on to a merchant ship that sails in two weeks.” 

“What? Why?” Victor asked, releasing Yuuri’s hands in order to fling his arms around Yuuri’s shoulders. “Am I driving you away? I’m too much for you, aren’t I? Mother says I’m high-maintenance and honestly, it’s at least partly her fault--she was the one who really pushed the trophy husband nonsense in the first place--but I’m sorry, my darling, I’ll try harder--”

 Yuuri’s fingers pressed against his lips to stop him. “It has _nothing_ to do with you,” he said. Then he pursed his lips and clarified, “well, it _does,_ but it’s not that I want to be _away_ from you.”

 “Then _why?”_ Victor cried, clinging a little bit tighter. “Why are you leaving me alone?”

 “I’m going to seek my fortune,” said Yuuri, gently untangling Victor’s arms from around his neck. “I have to be able to support you, and I can’t work for your parents forever, you know.” 

Victor sighed wearily. “I’d marry you if we had to live in a little hovel for the rest of our lives,” he said. “You know I would.”

 Yuuri quirked an eyebrow. “The creams you use on your skin every day would fill the whole thing, and then where would we live?”

 “You are _so_ cruel to me, my katsudon,” Victor pouted, “and you certainly appreciate what the creams do for my skin, don’t even think about lying about it.”

 “I wouldn’t,” said Yuuri, running one finger down Victor’s soft pale throat, smirking slightly at Victor’s shiver. “And I do. I’m just saying, we need something a little larger than a hovel.” 

Victor gave another long-suffering sigh. “Very well,” he said. “If you _must,_ I suppose.” 

“I must.”

 “Then know I will _pine_ for you as long as you are gone, and you had better pine just as terribly for me.” 

“You know I will, Vitenka,” Yuuri said, voice low and serious, and leaned in for one last kiss. 

There are many factors to judging a Good Kiss, and people tend to argue about what factors should carry more weight than others, but it’s generally agreed that a Good Kiss is one that is not too long but not too short, not too chaste but not too _unchaste,_ and one that manages to convey, through this mere press of lips, the emotions each kisser feels for the other.

 No matter what order or weight you gave to each of these factors, this kiss was a _Great Kiss._ Maybe the Best Kiss Ever.

 Once they parted, Yuuri reached out and trailed his fingers through Victor’s loose hair. “I’ll write to you every day,” he promised, as tears filled his dark eyes. 

Victor caught Yuuri’s hand in his and kissed his palm. “In French,” he urged. “It’s more romantic.”

 Yuuri let out a watery laugh as he nodded. “In French,” he agreed. “Though you know my French is terrible.”

 “I don’t care,” said Victor stoutly. “You could just write _je t'aime_ a hundred times and it would still be the best letter ever put to paper.”

 “I have to go now,” Yuuri said, “but before I go, I want to give you something.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. “A memento. So you won’t forget me.”

 “I could never forget _you,_ my darling.You’re my True Love; I’d know you anywhere.”

 Yuuri just smiled and opened the box. Victor gasped and pressed a hand to his mouth as he looked down at the pair of rings nestled inside. 

“Oh, _Yuuri,”_ he breathed. As a single glistening tear slid down his smooth cheek, he held out his other hand so Yuuri could place the ring on his finger. “It’s so beautiful.”

 “Not nearly good enough for you,” said Yuuri, bringing Victor’s hand to his lips. “But I’ll get you a nicer one when I come home.”

 Victor pressed his hand to his chest defensively. “No you _won’t_ ,” he declared. “I’m keeping this ring on until I die.” He leaned in and kissed Yuuri again before plucking the matching ring from the box and placing it on Yuuri’s hand. “I would probably have just given you a lock of my hair.” 

“I do love your hair,” Yuuri said, smiling. 

“When you come back, you can braid it for me again,” said Victor. “You know I’m so hopeless at it.” 

This was a lie. Victor knew about twenty different ways to braid his hair, each more elaborate than the last but Yuuri could only manage about three of the easier ones with any proficiency.

 “At least tie it back,” said Yuuri, as he began to back away. “People need to be able to see your perfect face.”

 Victor sniffled. “As you wish,” he said, his voice shaking, and with one last smile, Yuuri turned and walked away.

 Victor watched until he was gone, then he went to his room and wept, clutching his beringed hand against his heart.

* * *

 

 

For the first few months of Yuuri’s absence, Victor did nothing except mope. Well, mope and go through his beauty regimens, because when Yuuri came back, he would certainly not want to come home to a Victor whose skin was no longer soft and clear or whose hair was no longer silky or whose teeth were no longer straight and white and sparkling. Yuuri deserved nothing less than the most beautiful man in the world, and Victor was going to ensure that’s what Yuuri got.

 (There was really no danger of that not happening; Victor was so far above the second place man that there might as well not even _be_ a List anymore)

 When Yuuri’s first letter arrived, Victor’s smile was so bright and beautiful that the postman, who’d been happily married for nearly ten years, had stammered out a marriage proposal, and hadn’t even felt badly when Victor gently turned him down.

 (Yuuri’s first letter had consisted of the words _je t'aime_ written a hundred times, as well as a recitation of the goings-on aboard the ship and a list of the names of the other crewmen. Victor had pressed a fervent kiss to Yuuri’s signature and had written back a twelve-page response, consisting of the words _je t'aime_ written a great deal _more_ than a hundred times, a recitation of the terribly boring things he did to fill his days without Yuuri, and a list of all the things Victor loved best about him and wouldn’t Yuuri please come home soon because Victor was quite certain he was not correctly recalling the exact shade of Yuuri’s lovely eyes and it was bothering him and he really needed to gaze into Yuuri’s eyes for approximately twenty-two minutes so as to properly memorize their color again.)

 While carrying the letters back and forth, the postman had learned that it was best not to ask Victor about Yuuri, as Victor was more than willing to talk for hours about his fiancé. The villagers didn’t really begrudge Victor this, as he was so brilliantly beautiful when in love, so sometimes, when the matrons had a boring chore they needed to get done, they’d invite Victor over to help them and casually ask, “So how’s Yuuri doing?” as they handed Victor a bowl of beans that needed to be shelled for dinner.

 All of this ended one day, when a stranger came to the village and went straight to the Nikiforov house. “Another suitor, I’ll bet,” said the postman knowingly to the butcher, who nodded and commented, “You’d think they’d have learned by now.”

 Except it wasn’t a suitor. It was a man from the coast, bringing the most terrible news. Yuuri’s ship had been beset by the pirate known only as Eros, who never left survivors.

 “I’m so sorry,” said the man, who worked for the shipping company that owned the ship Yuuri had been on. “I came to tell you myself because I knew him a bit before he sailed and he talked about you all the time.” His eyes flickered up to Victor’s shocked face. “He was nice.” He shrugged uncomfortably. “I thought you might want to hear from someone who knew him, even if it was just for a short while. Instead of a letter.”

 “Thank you,” Victor responded automatically, and then he went to his room and locked the door.

 He flung himself onto his bed and cried as though his heart was breaking, because it was.

 “I will never love again,” he vowed.

 

* * *

 

 

Three days later, he still hadn’t left his room. He refused to eat anything or speak with anyone.

 “Vitya, darling,” his mother called through the door. “Please come out.” She cleared her throat. “You have a visitor.”

 There was no answer.

 “Victor,” said his father nervously. “It’s Prince Christophe. You can’t refuse to see him.”

 After a moment, the door opened.

Victor’s parents gasped. “Oh, Vitya,” his mother breathed. “What happened to your _hair?”_

 Victor reached up and ran a hand through his greasy, tousled, now very _short_ hair. “Yuuri liked it long,” was all he said, before running a hand down his wrinkled clothing. He threw his shoulders back and lifted his chin as he followed his parents back to their front room, where the Prince was waiting for him.

 “Oh, my _god,_ ” said the Prince, raising an eyebrow as he gave Victor a slow once-over. “What on earth happened to _you?”_

 “My true love died,” Victor said tonelessly.

 The Prince clicked his tongue sympathetically. “That _is_ a tragedy,” he said. “But not as much as whatever attacked your head.”

 Victor opened his mouth, but then met his mother’s eyes and bit his tongue.

 “You’ll have to grow it out again before the wedding, you realize,” said the Prince idly.

 Victor blinked dumbly at him. “Whose wedding?”

 The Prince smirked. “ _Ours,_ of course, gorgeous thing.”

 Victor frowned. “I haven’t agreed to marry you.”

 Prince Christophe’s smirk widened. “My sweet Victor, I’m the Crown Prince. Of course you do. You must.” He sent a significant glance towards Victor’s parents, and Victor understood his meaning immediately.

 Victor clenched his jaw. “I won’t love you,” he said.

 The Prince shrugged. “I don’t need your love,” he said. “I just want the most beautiful man in the world as my Consort, and my advisors certainly weren’t lying when they told me that man was you.”

 (Even in wrinkled clothing, with his hair greasy and unkempt and horribly short and his eyes bloodshot and swollen from tears, Victor’s beauty was undeniable)

 Victor closed his eyes and took a deep breath. _You know my heart will forever belong only to you, my Yuuri,_ he thought, running his thumb along the ring on his finger, before nodding. “Very well, Your Highness,” he said. “I’ll marry you.”

**Author's Note:**

> visit me on tumblr at [senorbunnicula](http://senorbunnicula.tumblr.com/)


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